M7: International Rescue
by chronicler-of-knuckles
Summary: NewAU-The Tracy family is long gone for the exception of one, lone son, leaving no one left to man their amazing rescue crafts and save the day. But hey, who better to handle the magnificent Thunderbirds than the Magnificent Seven?


International Rescue By The Chronicler 

His name was Captain Alan Tracy.

And he was about to say good bye to his son.

"Vincent."

The little, blue eyed, blond boy looked up from where he was wrestling with a panther cub on the ground under the hammock. "Daddy!" he cried, clapping his little hands. Jumping to his feet, he started to run for the man, but the cub, still thinking she was the center of the seven year old's world, pounced, caught his foot and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Captain Tracy winced.

"Ha-ha!" laughed John Tracy, Alan's older brother. He walked up to his little nephew and, picking him up, shook his leg until he had dislodged the panther.

With a disgruntled, little roar, the cub dropped back down to the ground. She bounced up again, taking a swipe, but John held the giggling child high and shook a finger at the animal. "Now, now, Kit. Go hunt up some fish or something."

She offered a snarl, but, deciding these guys weren't going to be fun any more, turned and wandered off to find some new bit of mischief to keep herself entertained with.

"Uncle John!" the little boy cheered. "You're back! Did you bring me a moon rock? Aliens? Candy?"

John Tracy laughed, giving the boy a good strong hug, before setting him down on his feet. "'Fraid there wasn't much of interest on Thunderbird 5, this time, sprout. But..." From his pocket he produced a rather large lollipop.

With a squeal, Vincent pounced on the treat.

"What do you say?" Alan reminded his son as he joined the two.

"Wank oo." his son answered around the gulf ball sized sucker.

John smiled, reaching out to ruffle the boy's long curls. "You are very welcome." He looked at his brother with a serious, even a little sad, expression. "Alan..."

Alan smiled slightly. "Thanks. We'll be fine." he assured. Not wanting to hear his brother's protest again, he took his son's hand and lead him away before one could be made.

Father and son walked for awhile neither saying anything. Little Vincent was too busy with his sucker, Alan was too busy with his own thoughts for much to be said. But, when the path turned sharply, showing a view of the beach below, Vincent released his father's hand and hurried to the rail. Looking down at the white sands below, he wondered "Is mommy here?"

Alan leaned over the rail and watched as a small hover craft was pulling up on shore. The sleek, sea blue craft settled down into the sand, its hatch falling forward.

Captain Tracy's gut twisted. He took a deep breath to steady himself. "Yes, your mother is here." He dropped down to one knee and turned the boy to face him. "Vincent..." He paused, trying to figure exactly how to say this. Licking his lips, he tried again. "Vin, you're going to go stay with your mother for awhile."

The boy's eyes went big. "In Texas?" he asked in awe. "Can I ride horses? Be a cowboy? Draw on the cows?"

"Draw on the...?" Alan had to stop and smile. "You mean brand cows?" At his son's over eager nod, Alan shrugged. "Possibly... eventually." He was suddenly reminded of just how long his beloved little son would be gone, and he lost his amusement.

Vincent watched his father for a moment, before asking "Are you coming too?"

Alan shook his head. "I need to stay here, Vin. I have a job to do."

"Saving people?" Vin asked.

"Yea. Saving people. That's what we do." Alan answered. If only he could save his family...

The overly alert child was getting the idea that something was wrong. He had seen his father and uncles run off to save the day time and time again. And more and more they were coming back shot up, hurt, bleeding even. And the Thunderbirds themselves were broken.

Even if the grownups didn't talk about it in front of him, Vincent knew that they weren't just rescuing any more; they were fighting.

And they were losing.

"They're coming." Vincent breathed.

Alan smiled slightly. "They're already here." he pointed out, nodding to the woman and her escort who stood on the beach waiting for them.

But Vincent shook his head. "The bad guys! They're coming here, aren't they!" He grabbed his father's arm. "I wanna stay! I wanna help! I can fight too! I can! Kit an' I fight all the time! We can help!" He pounded himself in the chest. "I'm a Thunderbird too!"

Alan cupped his son's face. "Yes, you are a Thunderbird." he confirmed. "Same as me, your uncles, your grandfather..." He stopped, suddenly wishing his father was alive to give the child this speech.

But Captain Jeff Tracy was long dead, the first fallen hero of the Tracy family. Alan had lost two brothers since to the same madness. The world's greatest threats weren't natural disasters anymore. They were terrorists: murderers set upon killing as many people as possible in the most extreme ways... earning extra points when the rescues went down with the victims.

The world was running out of heroes.

And Captain Alan Tracy would be damned before he allowed his only son, the one and only heir of the Tracy family, to end up a fallen and forgotten hero.

Of course, he was a Tracy!

"Vincent Tanner Tracy, you are a Thunderbird. Always have been, always will be." Alan waved a hand at the paradise world around them, the Tracy Island. "No matter where you go, no matter how long you are gone, no matter what happens... this is your home. This is where you were meant to be. And, one day, I know, this is where you will come back to." He dropped his head forward, touching his temple to his son's. "You are a Thunderbird. And like every good Thunderbird, you need to go where you're needed most. Where you can do the most good." Rising to his feet, Alan took a deep breath and looked down at the boy at his feet. "Right now, I need you to go with your mother. She's gonna need someone to look after her. Someone to protect her. I'm counting on you, son. Can you do this for me? For the Thunderbirds?"

Vincent snapped off a salute and proudly announced "Thunderbirds are go!"

Smiling proudly, Alan snapped to attention and returned the salute. "F.A.B." he answered.

With a cheer, the boy spun about and raced down the trail and hopped down the steps to the beach.

"F.A.B."

Alan glanced back to see John and Gordon coming down behind him. His smile faded and he swallowed hard. "He'll be safe in Texas." he told them, though he was trying to convince himself, not them. "Whatever happens, he'll be safe."

His brothers exchanged glances. But, they had been through this. They knew what the odds were of them coming out of this next bout alive. They might disagree, hate, even detest the idea of breaking up the family, but they understood a father's need to protect his son. After all, Vincent was the last Tracy.

And they had seen what had happened to the Tracys that hadn't been able to escape thus far.

John rested a hand on his younger brother's shoulder and offered a reassuring squeeze. "He's gonna be fine, Alan. Sprout's gonna grow up to be one hell of a Thunderbird."

Gordon nodded his agreement. "Kid's gonna kick butt when he comes home."

Alan looked up at them. "He's just a kid."

John shook his head. "Said that about you once. Dad reminded us of something more important."

Gordon swatted Alan on the arm. "He's a Tracy!"

* * *

Three days later.  
The Tanner Ranch, Texas

Mellany Tanner ran her fingers through her son's hair as he napped on her lap.

It was amazing how, in the span of seven minutes he went from a non stop bundle of energy to out like a light. The last few days had left her exhausted.

She couldn't help but compare him to his father. Growing up on the Tracy Island had left both father and son a little on the wild side. Vincent seemed more at home running through the fields and brush of Tanner Ranch than his mother's preferred libraries and museums. Just like Alan Tracy!

Oh, how she loved that man. If only he wasn't so Thunderbird, and she wasn't so Texan. but, then again, if they hadn't been who they were, butting heads and hearts every two seconds, they probably wouldn't have fallen in love, much less have a beautiful son.

And they probably wouldn't be hiding the boy away, having to protect him from the Thunderbirds' enemies. Vincent wouldn't be the target of that horrid Hood, the man determined to wipe clean from the face of this earth any note of the Tracy family.

"Madam!" called Mrs. Parker as she hurried into the den. She paused when she saw the sleeping boy, but then hurried across the room and turned on the television in front of Mellany.

"What is it?" the mother wanted to know.

"It's the Thunderbirds..."

"To recap this hour's breaking news." A TV reporter interrupted. He was in a helicopter, hovering over the remains of a twisted, green, flaming mess and an exploding mass of buildings. "Thunderbird Two has been destroyed with all hands! It's a disaster that will be felt around the world. The Thunderbirds were attempting to rescue a group of U.N. Arms Inspectors after a devastating explosion had trapped them in an apparent weapons compound. When, out of now where, what seems to have been a rocket of some sort struck Thunderbird Two, exploding it in the air. Not only did we lose six Inspectors, but we have lost the Thunderbirds as well. It is a sad, sad day indeed."

Mellany gasped, her hand covering her mouth. "Alan...?" She looked up at Parker. "John and Gordon?"

Mrs. Parker wiped her eyes. "They were all aboard, madam." She turned to the view screen. "John and Gordon were piloting Thunderbird Two and Alan..."

"Thunderbird Two's lift." A hand tightened on Mellany's knee and she looked down to see her son, still lying across her lap, watching the news broadcast. "Daddy would of been in the lift." he explained softly. "He was always in the lift. See?" He pointed to the screen where they were showing footage of the failed rescue.

Thunderbird Two was hovering over a clearing in the flames below. The lift was being lowered. One man stood inside. A jet stream pointed to the upper port side of the craft.  
Thunderbird Two shook violently, explosions bursting out port holes, blowing the hatches and panels off.  
The man in the lift looked up.  
Thunderbird Two exploded, raining a shower of twisted metal, fire, and burning debris down on the lift, smashing it to the ground.  
The man within and the six victims below all vanished under the distruction.

Vincent suddenly rolled away from the screen, burring his face in his mother's stomach, and sobbed.

Mellany hugged the child to her, holding on to all she had left in the world with every ounce of strength she had. "Parker." she whispered, "Contact TinTin. Close down Tracy Island and get her to the main land."

"B... But, madam, without the Thunderbirds... who's gonna save all those people?" Parker protested.

Hurt and angry, Mellany could think of only one answer: "Let them save their own damn selves!"

* * *

Fifteen years later.  
Somewhere south and east of the Florida Keys

International Rescue Director Travis stood on the deck of the deck of the Coast Guard cutter and watched as the two hover crafts maneuvered with amazing precision around the capsized vessel.

The storm waters were pounding into all four crafts, but the hover pilots showed mastery of their individual crafts. They twisted and swooned around the dangerous surf, pushing through the typhoon winds, maneuvering the hovers to just the right spot need to do the job. Each positioned itself on either side of the fishing boat, then, raising their noses while angling their stern down, they directed their air powered engines at the base of the sinking boat. Using the same power that propelled the hovers over all sorts of terrain, they lifted it boat up and out of the water just enough that the sailors who had been trapped underneath could wiggle free.

Coast Guard divers, already in the waters, swam to the rescue, pulling the freed men back and out of harms way. When the all clear signal was given, the hovers angled away sharply, letting the boat crash back into the angry ocean which, without second thought, smashed it into a million pieces and devoured each.

"Job well done, Larabee, Wilmington." congratulated the Captain over the com. "Now get your asses, and the $250 thousand of research you are each creening around in, back to port for one more lecture on proper procedure and what 'Not tested for use' means exactly!"

"Hey! It got the job done!" one of the hover pilots protested.

"NOW, Wilmington! Or you will spend your next tour scrubbing the barnacles off the Ol' Herman, here, with your freakin' toothbrush!"

"Move it, Buck." growled the other pilot as he slowly directed the hover back toward land and their home port.

Reluctantly, yet obediently, the other followed.

The Captain shook his head. "You sure you want Larabee?" he asked Travis. "He and his ever present shadow, Wilmington... They're not exactly high on the proper procedure scale. Fact is, inventing new ways to get into trouble seems the only thing they're high in."

Director travis shrugged. "And, yet, they have the best record in history, for successful rescues." he pointed out.

"Yea, they do." But the Captain wasn't convinced that made up for it. "But we have procedures for a reason. Cowboying's gonna get someone killed. The proven ways might be boring after the hundredth time 'round, but, we know they work, and we know they won't kill one of us in the process. Thinking out side the box is not what a Captain needs when the chips are down."

"On the contrary." Travis turned away from the man and started to walk away. "Thinking outside the box is exactly what a Captain needs when the chips are down. After all, the chips are only really down when the proven ways no longer work" That established, he left the deck.

* * *

Lieutenant Chris Larabee threw his helmet into his locker. "Stupid, son of a bitchin' procedures!" he snarled. "Fuck procedures!" He turned to glare at his partner. "And you! You and your what-sorta-trouble-can-we-find-today ass!"

The blue eyes twinkled from within the safety of his flight helmet, assuring Chris that the man was indeed grinning as he wined "What'd I do?"

"One of these days I'm gonna just shot you in the ass an' get the whole damn thing over with!" Chris warned, turning back to his locker and throwing his survival belt in. "That's all I need: that mop-handle-stuck-up-his-ass Captain giving me a lecture on how to save a life. Hell, if he ever stepped foot off the bridge, he'd shit his pants!"

Lieutenant Buck Wilmington chuckled as he pulled off his helmet and set it down on the bench beside his locker. "Come on, ol' buddy. You know you like to piss him off as much as I do. 'Sides, the only reason he rags on you is 'cause the men like you better than they like him. And you have the guts to get the job done while he hides behind procedures and rules."

"Yea?" Chris glanced at him again, before wiggling out of his flight suit and down to his skibbies. "Got a theory as to why he's so hot after you?"

Buck shrugged. "Coulda been that weekend I went AWOL with Captain Cherel Mckander. Or that night Kathy an' I went skinny dippin' off Ol' Herman's bow. And there was that time with Mandy from West Point. He wasn't too happy 'bout his spit an' polished officer getting a little grimy. Oh, and Angela, she was that exchange officer from Austria... or was that Laura?... Anyway..."

Someone cleared his throat.

The two Guardsmen leaned back to see down the locker room to the entrance.

An elderly looking man in a gray, three piece suit and polished black paten shoes stood there, his hands clasped behind his back, looking rather out of place in the Coast Guard locker room. Despite his gray, he stood tall and straight, showing both strength and confidence... and, perhaps, arrogance. His strong gray eyes instantly took in every detail of the locker room and the occupants in a practiced, even trained, manner. He waited quietly for a moment, allowing the two to look him over properly, before, finally, greeting them with a tilt of his head and a very proper "Gentlemen."

"Buck?"

"Yea, Chris?"

"You know of any inspections?"

"Nope."

"We hurt them hover things any?"

"Not a scratch."

Chris threw his friend a glare. "Senator's daughter?"

Buck shrugged.

"Then, pray tell, what's a civilian doin' in my locker room and not gettin' shot at?" Chris wanted to know.

"Probably 'cause you're not wearin' any gun 'cause you're not wearin' any pants." Again, Buck was hit with that deadly Larabee glare. He quickly held up his hands. "Hey, but you just give me a moment here..." He dove into his locker. "Sure I can find somethin' in here you can shoot him w... Woe! Why didn't you warn me 'bout my socks! Thought you had my back, man!"

Ignoring Wilmington, the stranger focused on Larabee. "Mr. Larabee, I'd like to compliment you on a fine display of piloting skills today." he offered.

Chris' eyes narrowed. "You were out on the cutter?" Now, this guy was really getting into places civvies just weren't supposed to be... which meant he sure as hell wasn't a civilian! "Who the hell are you?"

"I am Director Travis of International Rescue." he offered.

"International who?" Buck wondered, as he climbed out of his locker and took a seat on the bench. When Chris glanced at him, he tossed his friend a little pistol shape PEZ dispenser.

Chris frowned at it, but quickly turned his attention back to Travis.

"Not who, Mr. Wilmington... what." Travis corrected. "International Rescue. Have either of you gentlemen ever heard of... The Thunderbirds?"

Buck and Chris looked at each other.

"Wasn't that, like, some sort of British puppet show... or something?" Buck guessed, though he had a pretty good idea that wasn't the Thunderbirds Travis was talking about.

Chris wasn't in the mood to play games. "Thunderbirds: some pretty high tech machines, went around the world rescuing folks about twenty years ago. But when war became the main reason for folks needin' rescue, the Thunderbirds were destroyed." He shrugged. "Search & Rescue doesn't prep you for behind enemy lines rescues."

"Nothin' in the S&R manual 'bout how to handle bullets flyin' at you." Buck agreed. "So, what's that gotta do with us?" he asked.

Again Travis focused on Larabee. "Mr. Larabee, I have a proposition for you."

Buck looked his friend, still standing in his skibbies, up and down, looked at the old man, and laughed. "Trust me here, pops... you're not his type." He frowned then. "By the way... it's LIEUTENANT Larabee and LIEUTENANT Wilmington."

Travis smiled a little self righteous smirk. "Not any more, according to what Captain Schaffer had to say on our way back in from the rescue. In fact, if he has his way, talks to just the right people, you both may be looking at a term of imprisonment for your... let's call it a... a disagreement with the establishment with the proper use of untried equipment."

"Well, it's sure as hell tried now!" Buck protested, rising to his feet. "That little, pin head wheasel! We just saved them billions in testing!"

"Son of a bitch!" Chris snapped, turning back to, once again, abuse his locker, with a swift kick. Unfortunately, he had forgotten that he had already kicked off his boots, and his unprotected toe struck the metal door. "Owe!" he hollered, falling back onto the bench and grabbing his wounded foot. "Son of a bitch!" he yelled again. "Goddamn it! Mother fu..."

"Gentlemen!" Travis reminded them that he was still there, most likely offering them an alternative to prison. When the two men looked at him, he spread his hands. "Perhaps, once properly attired, Mr. Larabee, you would like to join me for a cup of coffee to discuss what options may be open to you."

Chris shook his head. "Uh-huh. I don't play politics, Travis. You want to say something, don't go hiding behind this sneaking around CIA shit. I ain't goin' for it. Got somethin' to say, say it!"

The Director tilted his head to one side, more than a little ruffled at being spoken to in just such a manner. But, then again, it was Chris Larabee's direct approached, his progress over protocols, that made him the perfect man for the job. And the job needed to be done.

"Mr. Larabee, I am here to offer you a position as Captain of Team Thunderbirds." Travis announced.

"Holy crap in your pants..." Buck whistled.

Travis glanced at him with distaste. "Elegantly put." he observed, before turning back to Chris. "This is a one time offer, Mr. Larabee. I will not make it again. Since the Thunderbirds is a top secret organization, I can tell you very little until you have signed papers announcing your acceptance of the position. If you say no, you will not be contacted again, nor will you ever be able to contact us... ever!"

Chris dropped his foot, his wounded toe forgotten. "Captain of a team? What team? The Thunderbirds were destroyed." he pointed out.

"Yes, they were." Travis admitted. "But, with your help, they will be back... and, this time, they will be ready for the behind enemy lines' sort of rescues." He held up a digital disk. "With your agreement, I can show you more."

Chris looked up at Buck.

Buck shrugged. "Beats puddle hopping for Captain Blood."

"When do you need an answer?" Chris wanted to know.

"Before charges are printed." Travis answered. "Once you are in a ... legal matter... I can not interfere."

"So... I have until I knock on the Captain's hatch." Chris summed it up.

Travis nodded once. "I will be waiting in the cafeteria." He started to turn to leave.

"Hey, Director?" Buck called after him. "It's called a mess."

"Mr. Wilmington." Travis glanced over his shoulder. "If you are hoping that this invitation extends to you... " He paused dramatically, letting the man squirm, before saying "Try not to be such a wise ass." Then he was gone, letting the two men mule over their choices.

* * *

36 hours later.  
somewhere in the South Pacific

It was a paradise island sitting in the middle of the deepest blue ocean. The deepest jungle green covered most of the island, framed by blinding white, sandy beaches, and spotted with rugged, rocky towers. On the north-west side of the island, climbing up the mountain side, was a compound.

"Welcome, gentlemen, to the Tracy Island." Director Travis offered, leading Buck and Chris up the trail from the beach to the huge patio at the base of the compound.

In the center of the patio was a large swimming pool, and, a little above that a smaller, diving pool. Behind the diving pool and climbing up the mountain was a four tere deck, one set back a little further than the one below. A little deeper back on each deck, built into the mountain itself, was the main house. High above the decks, extending out from the rock face, was a large, oval shaped room. The entire front of the room was all glass, from three feet back on the ceiling and floor. And, even higher, on the very top of the mountain was another large, oval room braced up on thick stilts. The walls all around this room were made of glass, giving it the full view of the island around it.

"Wow." Buck breathed. "Now that's a place a man would be happy to kick his boots off and call home." He whistled softly.

Chris pushed his stetson back on his head. "It is pretty. But pretty doesn't get the job done."

"No, it doesn't." spoke up a tall, rugged young man who walked up from behind them. He was young, maybe only twenty-two or so, dressed in raggedy blue jeans, a buck skin vest button up the front, and old, worn buckskin moccasians. Dirty blond, curly hair hung down to his shoulders. Sharp blue eyes peered out from a sun tanned face, seeing everything even as his expresion showed nothing but disintertested. He barely looked at them as he walked pass, and headed up the steps that ran along one side of the pool and up to the second level deck.

"Woe... howdy! Chris!" Buck cried with alarm, grabbing his friend's arm and yanking him to the side.

Swaying back and forth, following the young stranger, was a huge, black panther. Like the man, she barely glanced at them as she made her way up the steps. She stretched out on the ledge of the deck, hanging a paw, her thick tail thunking on the floor as it swished this way and that. From her perch, she eyed the men below like a cat eyed a mouse. Her dangling paw flexed, revealing long, deadly claws, and she made a low, grumble, sending a glance back to boy, as if asking if they were on or off limits.

"Easy, now, Kit." the young man cooed to his pet, reaching down to scratch behind on of her large ears.

"Mr. Tanner." Directer Travis called.

He looked down at them. "Travis." He nodded to the new comers. "Who you've got there?" he asked in a slow, easy, Texas drawl.

Travis glanced back at the two. He smiled slightly. "If you and the others will join us in the control room, I will make the introductions." he offered. "Mr. Standish is on premisses, I presume!"

Tanner chuckled. "Yea. Ol' 'Siah took the keys away from him when we all heard you were a comin'. Think he's down in the hanger, tryin' his hand at hotwirin' J.D.'s security locks."

"Mr. Tanner..." Travis warned. Though he had the upmost confidence in their teckman's ability at keeping things locked up, he had the upmost confidence in their supply officer for getting through locks.

The young man held up a hand. "No worries, Travis. I'll find him." he assured. "Hey, Kit, don't eat no one importent now." Tanner said, giving the panther a last pat, before making his way to the back of the deck and through the automatic, sliding, glass door and into the house.

"Tanner?" Buck mumbled. He nudged Chris. "That's the other pilot. Hell, he ain't no more than a kid!"

"That kid', Mr Wilmington, has a better flight record than you, yourself, can boast." Director Travis glanced back over his shoulder at the man. "And he has the additional talent of not' boasting about it." He glanced at Chris, then started for the stairs. "If you gentlemen will follow me..."

It didn't look much like a control room to either of the former guardsmen. More like a living room of some plush, rich man's home. There were curved sectional couches along the back walls with elegantly carved coffee tables, a wet bar in the back right corner, and a large, curved desk centered in the front of the room, facing out the huge glass windows.

Travis sighed heavily when the automatic doors opened and they were blasted by the rather loud, blaring music from the large, ceiling speakers. Shaking his head, he marched across the room to the desk, and, with a few key strokes, silenced the music.

"Hey!" came a growl from below and in front of the desk. A head full of wavy black hair and hazel eyes poked up. "I was listenin' to that!" came a protest.

Travis bowed his head. "And, now, you are going to listen to me, Mr. Dunne." With a wave of his hand, he ordered "Come on out from there and meet your new Captain."

The eyes scruntched up. "I got work to do. The bi-polar connections ain't doing what they're supposed to be doing." he explained before starting to duck down again.

"J.D.!" Tanner called as he lead three other men into the room through a door on the right. "Think we can do without cable for a minute or two." He nodded to Travis as he stepped around the desk, grabbed the little engineer by the back of the neck and hauled him to his feet.

J.D. Dunne shook himself loose and sent a withering glare at the man. "It ain't the cabel!" he snapped. But, with a shrug, added sheepishly "It's the hack into the direct movie surfer."

If Tanner was young, J.D. was right out a child. He looked as if he couldn't be more than sixteen. And, to add to the look, his black bangs dangled across one eye, his work jumper was just a little too big for him so the arms and leg cuffs were rolled up, and there was a greese smudge over and to one side of his left eye. Though he was small, there was width to his shoulders, suggesting that, one day, he just might fill out to be a good, strong man.

Travis frowned. "I thought I told you no more hacks." He crossed his arms over his chest and gave him his best displeased father look.

"There ain't no more hacks!" J.D. protested. "It's one of the old ones... I just needed to fix it. Because someone' overloaded the system when he tried to land the Thunderbird One!" He sent a glare at a rather over dressed man who had followed Tanner in.

The man frowned, placing a finely manicured hand over his heart. "Why, sir, I must protest. If you do I recal, I was hired as a purcurment officer... not a pilot." he purred with a deep Southern axcent. His emerald green eyes matched his tailored suite jacket and tie which laid over an silk, ivory blouse and doe soft black slacks.

"Then you shouldn't of tried to run off in one, brother Ezra." spoke up a huge man who had dropped himself back onto one of the couches. He kicked up huge, hicking boots up on one of the coffee tables, and stretched out so far, he took up the entire couch. Gray eyes peered out in a half-asleep look. His rugged, square jaw was several days unshaven and well on its way to growing a beard. And, just as big as the man and his boots, was the huge grin, lined with big white teeth, that the man flashed.

"He's got a point, Ezra." added the last man, a tall, black fella, dressed in an old, worn tan shirt, looking as if it had once been the part of some uniform. His sleeves were rolled up and his hands dusty from some sort of manual labor. On his righ shoulder was an American flag patch, and on the left a Red Cross patch. His smile was quick and easy and his brown eyes soft and kind, all adding to the gentle appearence of the man. But the brace of throwing knives hanging from his belt suggested that his appearence, like the Tracy Island, might not tell the whole story.

"Nathan, if you do not mind, but to keep to your own matters and well out of mine!" Ezra warned.

But the black man shoved a finger at the dandy and pointed out "When your cowboying risks laying men up in my ward, it becomes my bissiness." Deciding to end that conversation, he turned and, finally, egknowlaged the newcomers. "So's, you must be Larabee and Wilmington." He greeted, crossing the room and offering his hand.

Buck and Chris had watched the whole scene from the safety of the door way, unsure if they were intruding on some private family affair or not. But, when Nathan approached, Buck practically bounced into the room with a big grin of his own and a sway of the head.

"Well, howdy, there." Buck responded, giving Nathan's hand a healthy shake. "Buck Wilmington's the name. You all can call me Buck."

"Gee... really? Can we?" J.D. yawned, rolling his eyes.

Tanner smacked the kid up along the back of the head.

"Ouch!" J.D. hissed. He opened his mouth to snap something, but a firm glare from Tanner snapped it shut again.

Buck leaned close to Nathan. "Just how the hell old is that kid any how? Shouldn't he be in school or somethin'? Takin' his nap?" he mumbled, not quite low enough that anyone in the room would miss.

"Hey!" J.D. started over the desk, but, once again, Tanner intervened, setting a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back.

Nathan chuckled. "J.D.?" He shook his head. "Don't let his looks fool you. He might be young, but he's finished school 'bout three times over."

"Four." J.D. was quick to correct.

Travis waved a hand to the boy. "Mr John Daniels Dunne has a Masters in computer engineering from Boston's own, very fine ITT, plus a very other minor degrees in other forms of engineering. Despite his youthful... lack of control, he is a fine teck man... when we can keep his mind on the job and off of computer espinoge."

"Hacking." J.D. mumbled, but dropped his eyes and pretended to be invisable... just in case his employer wanted to press the issue.

Travis sighed, shaking his head, as he turned and motioned towards Nathan. "Mr. Nathan Jackson, team medic and diver. His talents also include some small craft piloting, light weight boxing, and an unusual knowlage of natural poisons."

Buck suddenly pulled his hand back. "Poisons?" he inquired, eyeing the man with a whole new look. After all, poison wasn't exactly something you could shoot.

Nathan smiled. "Little something I picked up with serving as a medic down in Austria. Them folks could could cure ya or kill you all with the same plant."

"By the way, Brother Nathan..." asked the big man as he rose to his feet and wandered over. "Isn't it your turn to handle the evening's meal?"

Again Nathan chuckled. "Sure is, Josaih. Planning on something just right for tonight." He stepped aside so that the big man could make his greetings.

Buck's head rolled back, trying to take in just how big this guy really was. "Hi..." he offered weakly.

"Mr Josiah Sanchez, gentlemen." Travis introduced. "Former astronaunt and your cultural liason when you need one. He knows twelve different languages that I know of. He can move in and out of most cultures as though he was born to them. He can also rip a station wagon's door right off the hinges when properly motivated. He was a multitude of tallents ranging from automachanic to diving to outdoor survival to... well, I have yet to find a topic Mr. Sanchez does not have, at least, a smudgen of knowlage in. I'm sure you will find him useful."

"All that, huh?" Buck tried to smile, but it turned into a grimace when the big man squeezed just a little too much when they shook hands.

"Be amazed at all the time you have to think when you're a billion miles above earth in a tiny, leaking caccoon." He paused, shaking his head. "Floating about in God's carin' hands, wondering if all your sins will be accounted for in that one last breath as you listen to the whistle of your air canisters leeking away your life. Watching as the world turns below, all those innocence, and all that evil... so beautiful from such a mighty distance." Josaih grinned that huge grin. "Damn, best days of my life!" he admitted.

"O-kay." Buck rubbed his hand gingerly. He glanced pass the man to Ezra.

The dandy raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Mr. Ezra P. Standish." Travis answered the unasked question. "Supply officer. He has an interesting knack of getting things that would be, otherwise, unattainable."

"It is a gift and a curse." Ezra sighed. "But, as the gentleman I am, I do try to bare the burdon with grace and charm."

Buck frowned. "What's the P' stand for?"

"Pain in the ass." J.D. offered quickly.

Ezra threw the boy a glare, but was quickly distracted by the other guesses.

"Prunning?" Nathan threw out.

"Pansy?" was Tanner's suggestion.

"Purloiner!" Josiah declared.

Ezra ground his teeth, crossing his arms over his chest, and mumbled "Try peturbed." before turning and marching himself to a corner couch.

Buck grinned. He looked back at Chris, who was still standing in the door way, watching the events. "Think I'm gonna like these guys."

"Oh, gee, really?" J.D. stepped aside, dodging Vin's smack.

Finnaly, Travis turned and nodded toward Vin. "Mr. Vincent Tanner, pilot, marksman, driver..."

"As well as ropin', bronco bustin', cattle brandin', an' trackin'." Vin interupted. "None of which matters a damn to you 'til we get a rescue in Texas." He focused on Chris. "Captain, come on in. Don't mind the boys, none. They've been couped up jus' long enough to go stir crazy. But they don't bite."

"Least not yet." J.D. mumbled.

Chris finally stepped into the room. "Kid's got a real smart mouth on him." he observed.

J.D. stiffened, but Vin answered for him.

"Yea, he does." Vin ruffled the boy's hair, adding "We're still hoping to beat him out of it though."

Chris smiled at that. "I just might hang around for that." He wandered about the room, looking it over, well aware that all eyes were on him. They were all waiting for Finally he came to stand in front of the desk. "This is the control room?" he huffed, unimpressed.

"Expected more?" Vin crossed his arms over his chest.

"Consider this is supposed to be the heart of International Rescue, the most advance rescue team on and above the earth..." Chris looked at Buck. "Yea, I expected more. Didn't you?"

Buck shrugged.

"J.D., how about we show Captain Larabee more'?" Vin suggested.

J.D. grinned. Placing a hand on the back of the desk, he jumped over the top and dropped into the chair. Running his finger under the edge of the desk, he hit an nearly invisable switch. A panal slid out, revealing a glowing hand print.

Josiah grabbed Buck's elbow and pulled him back. "Might want to step aside, friend."

"Sure would be a shame to get your toes run over." Nathan agreed, stepping back.

J.D. set his hand, palm down, on the print.

The room's light color switched from pale yellow to red. A deep alarm sounded. A circle of rails around the desk rose up from the floor. Then the floor within the circle began to rise itself, turnning as it did.

As the floor under foot began to rise, Chris stumbled back. "What the hell...?" he started.

The floor continued to rise until it had wound about to face the windows again, sitting three feet higher than the rest of the room. Every other window had shimmered, fogged, then cleared again, revealing varies satalite pictures of planet Earth, with the panels in between blinked before coming up with a long list of information and maps. Sections on the desk rose, revealing computer screnes and key pads. The painted scenery on the left wall broke into seven seperate panals, then flipped and slid back, revealing seven, silver, singal-man lifts, each marked with a large, red number 1-7. Steel doors slid down over the doorways, locking the room down.

The alarms quieted as beeps and voiced reports became a low, steady humm. The last screens and panals clicked into place, the red lights changed color again, turning blue.

J.D. spun around in his chair, crossed his arms over his chest, and waiting for the applause.

Smiling and shaking his head, Vin leaned on the desk and, tilting his head to one side, asked "Impressed?"

"Holy crap in your pants..." Buck exclaimed, eyes big with amazement.

"Really, Mr. Wilmington, we must expand your volcabulary." groaned Ezra Standish.

But everyone else's attention remained of the Captain, waiting for his response.

Chris Larabee tipped his stetson back on his head. "Well..." he breathed. "This is more."


End file.
